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When I fight for women’s rights, he says he loves me.

He calls me passionate when I preach activism.

He tells me how proud he is when I correct sexism.

He praises me in adoration, that I can do whatever a man can do.

Yet he doesn’t fight for women.

He doesn’t preach activism.

He doesn’t correct sexism.

It seems like, after all, that he doesn’t think I can do whatever a man can do.

He fucks a feminist. He shows his love to a feminist. He praises a feminist, but he isn’t a feminist.

He is a strong man and a good man. He doesn’t kill women after all.

He is a modern man.

He is the modern feminist.



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As I sit and read,

an intrusive thought goes through my head:

He’s out to get you. The love is dead.

I try to get rid of the thought

but I am just feeling distraught.

I begin to panic, my hands start to shake.

I can’t get rid of these…



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A ladybug flew by my window,

and I wondered where she’s been.

How many lives has she seen?

Is it easy, to be a ladybug?

So tiny, so pretty, so lean.

She came back to my window,

and she rested a bit.

I looked at her little black spots

and her little wings.

Luck comes to do those who get to see her.

I for one, wish to be her.



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I am acting restless.

Anxiety filling every little part of my mind.

Why am I like this?

Constantly wondering how to change.

I don’t want to be like this.

How can I change any further?

There is just so much I can do.

These feelings never stop.

I don’t want to use chemicals to fix my brain.

I want to think differently.

Be different.

Act different.

Always uneasy,

Consistently fidgety,

Without fail on edge,

At all times tense.



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I found my creativity in you. Afterwards I found creativity in someone that replaced you.

The pain I was in, allowed me to express myself. I thought only when I cry I have something to say.

I found my creativity in a new person. He brought different kind of feelings. I stopped crying and so did my Art. I was upset about it.

I had my new muse, yet words weren’t pouring out.

I allowed myself to experience these new feelings outside of pain.

It was magnificent. I was flying. I was present and aware.

New pieces started forming, my mind was working wonders.

My new muse helped me realize it wasn’t about pain, or others.

It wasn’t about present or past lovers.

It’s about me.

I was my muse all along.



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Is it love or obsession, when I call you mine?

Is it adoration or lust, when I cross the line?

When you laugh with others and you shine,

Is it wrong if I hate it and just pretend I am fine?

When I am near you I am on cloud nine,

Once you leave me, my mood declines.

Touching you is so divine,

Sometimes it feels like my only lifeline.



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Is it okay to be late?

To not have your shit together?

Is it okay to be needy? Jealous? Angry?

Is it okay to be anything but fucking perfection?

Is it okay to not know?

To simply exist?

To not create a change?

Or leave an impact?

Is it okay, just to be human?